


balle de match (raquettes détendues)

by architecture_in_f1ll0ry



Category: Avatar: Legend of Korra
Genre: F/F, I miss paris can you tell, for better or worse this is essentially a love letter to stan twitter, gratuitous suyin h8, here's my baby monster, the tennis au I've been threatening for weeks, veteran kuvira, wildcard korra
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-29
Updated: 2020-07-29
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:22:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25588219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/architecture_in_f1ll0ry/pseuds/architecture_in_f1ll0ry
Summary: Q: How do you feel Korra fared against you today, considering this is not only her first tournament, but her return to tennis?KUVIRA BEIFONG: I was really, really impressed by her performance. I went in expecting a difficult match and she delivered. I couldn’t take anything for granted. She’s a gorgeous player.Q: Did you say gorgeous?KUVIRA BEIFONG: (Laughs) Uh, I guess I did.-In which Korra and Kuvira are unlikely opponents in the French Grand Slam, and only a few rackets get tossed.
Relationships: Iroh II/Asami Sato, Korra/Kuvira (Avatar), Lin Beifong/Izumi
Comments: 54
Kudos: 219





	balle de match (raquettes détendues)

**Author's Note:**

> extremely important disclaimer: I know next to nothing about tennis but I needed to write this, so I did a TON of research and likely still got a lot of technical things completely wrong. if you're a diehard tennis fan, forgive any inaccuracies you see! 
> 
> the press conferences and live match commentary in italics are heavily adapted from quite a few real life transcripts—thank you serena williams THE GOAT, naomi osaka, wang quiang, and maria sharapova for the inspo and just your talent in general, wow
> 
> -
> 
> if you're the type who goes for total immersion, here are the songs mentioned:
> 
> la belle et le bad boy - mc solaar (when korra's in the gym)  
> papaoutai - stromae (same scene, and let's go ahead and throw alors on danse in there too)  
> djomb - bien ou quoi - bosh (the song korra and kuvira dance to in the club)  
> je ne regrette rien - edith piaf (when korra and kuvira are in the taxi)  
> wimbledon - rich white ladies (bonus, this doesn't appear anywhere, but I feel the need to include it for obvious reasons... insert wherever you like)
> 
> sorry not sorry for all the french. hope you enjoy.

Springtime in Paris is indeed worthy of all the dewy-eyed propaganda, even if Korra can barely navigate the meandering, circuitous neighborhoods on her own, hampered as she is by her extremely sixth-grade level French and awful sense of direction. It’s way too embarrassing to request an aide, though, so she relies on translation apps and taxis, taking in the swiftly passing trees that are creeping into bloom, the sprawling sidewalk cafes and vibrant flower and candy vendor displays from a plush backseat view, windows down. Maybe eventually she’ll learn these streets through some kind of dizzied osmosis, but for the moment, her head is too preoccupied with the constant, low-level churn of anxiety, disbelief, exhilaration, and dread, though not particularly in that order. 

Or, at least, not in this moment, as she pays, exits the car, and waits to cross the street, watching the short line of traffic pass before jogging across and up onto the sidewalk, entering the gym quickly, giving only a brief wave and smile to the small group of assembled fans. She’s glad she listened to Asami (“It’s not as bad as London or Australia, but there will be fans stationed everywhere you go. Do _not_ wear those ratty shorts you love so much”) but it’s kind of nice, actually, to be so admired on an international scale. And novel, in a terrifying way.

Disbelief, she decides, as she sheds her jacket and joggers, getting into her preferred workout gear: neon green spandex shorts and white sports bra, her newly cropped hair secured into a high pony. That’s the reigning emotion of the day, two days out from the first round, sheer disbelief. And what a first, she muses, entering the spacious, sunlit, and blessedly empty gym, setting down her water bottle and towel, affixing her airpods into place, opening her phone's music app. First time out of the country since the accident, first time in France, first time playing a Grand Slam—the Roland-Garros, to boot. A career restart and milestone, in one fell swoop. She drops into a series of stretches, cycling through her usual reps with MC Solaar pounding into her ears, until the tension has bled away, replaced by the steady, reliable burn. Good. This is what she needed. Even this far away from her familiar turf, from her familiar gym and its familiar setup, she can just recenter herself in the power of her own body, her own skill. Korra has always been called a wild card, anyway. With this official designation, she’s decided to lean into it.

She’s into minute 23 of 30 on the treadmill, mouthing badly along to La Belle Et Le Bad Boy when movement in the corner of the gym catches her eye: the door opening, admitting another player. Korra blazes with a brilliant rush of heat when she sees the sharply angled jaw and solid frame that she’s watched on her laptop and big screen and, sometimes, phone for years—Kuvira Beifong, one of her fellow teammates and the youngest female athlete _ever_ to hold 23 Grand Slam titles. So, a very chill moment for Korra to be inhabiting, right now, in her neon fucking green spandex.

They’ve met a few times before, of course, a weird succession of fancy dinners and even fancier brunches, loud and stressful press conferences, a series of formal handshakes and almost-warm greetings that leave Korra slightly awed and vaguely unsettled every time. Kuvira is not unfriendly, exactly, but she’s not friendly either, just—it’s been impossible to tell what she really thinks of Korra, no matter how many times they exchange mildly varying pleasantries. She knows her own media narrative: young hothead prodigy who suffered an awful injury at the worst time, hobbling her promising career before it could really get off the ground. Most people seem to toggle between reverent respect at her earlier, rapid succession of triumphs (three blowout WTA wins in as many years, among them) and horrified pity at her consequent two year period of rehabilitation, therapy, and training after her accident. But Kuvira has never offered any of that to Korra. It’s a relief and also, something kind of like disappointment? And a little bit like jealousy. But why should Korra be all that interesting to her, anyway? She has yet to prove herself, to Kuvira and to the world. Currently, the only person who knows Korra’s full capabilities is Korra. 

And, probably, Tenzin.  
  


Kuvira’s all in black, from her sports bra to her leggings to her sneakers, and her hair is in its typical long braid. It’s always a little unsteadying, making this rapid compromise between Kuvira’s actual, in-the-flesh presence and the breathless, fawning media imagery. She glances around the room and meets Korra’s eye, giving her a brief nod of acknowledgement before disappearing past her line of vision, which is a good thing. She’s suddenly aware of how much she’s sweating, the lopsided tilt of her ponytail, which is the problem. Kuvira is _distracting._ Korra shakes her head once, trying, yet again, to dispel the slight buzz along the surface of her skin that Kuvira’s proximity always seems to herald. Something about those green eyes, not that she could see them from this far away, but still. Korra can picture them clearly enough.

She’s going to think about something else. 

First Grand Slam ever, first game in two years. Tenzin assured her she was ready, she’s capable, Katara too, and she, Korra, can feel it in her bones. But the simple truth is that no matter how sure she feels, how keyed into her skills and weaknesses and just, overall, her physical strength—she still just has to _do_ it. Do the thing. Win her first match, and then her second, and third, and keep going until she wins the entire damn tournament and takes home her trophy. Unlikely? Yes. Tangible? Yes. Challenges, Korra really likes those. And this is the one she’s been dreaming of, since before she was fully convinced she would stand and run and jump again. 

Korra has never seen Kuvira laugh in person. Not actual laughs, where you can see at least a little bit of the glee reflected in the person’s eyes. She does fake laughs. It drives Korra a little crazy. So she’s the best player in the world, she can’t take a joke? Or is it some kind of privacy thing? These are questions that, under normal circumstances, she would just take it upon herself to find answers to. It’s her whole thing, barging her way into situations or relationships that catch her interest and proceeding to charm everyone the hell over or majorly piss them off, or both. Making grand leaps and relying on brute strength and battle cunning to help her through. It works, most of the time. Or, it used to.

Now she knows better. 

Balance, this is her goal. Yes, she wants to win, and that’s an impulse and dream that will never go away. But keeping herself whole and clear-eyed in the process, not betraying her newfound peace. _Peace._ Which means keeping her probing questions to herself, not bothering Kuvira with them. 

No. She is not supposed to be thinking about Kuvira. She flushes anew at the necessity for such a strong internal reminder, grits her jaw in irritation. Then she glances down at the machine and does a mild double take when she sees she’s on minute 41, having blown past her goal, too distracted to notice. Okay, a few extra miles couldn’t hurt at all. Slowing down to a jog, then an eventual brisk stride, she switches to a Stromae album and jabs the volume up louder, dabbing at her sweat with her towel. There are a few more people filtering into the gym now, players from Russia and China and two more from home, so at least now the air pressure of the room is lessened, re-distributed. Korra hops off and cleans the machine, gulps down half of her water bottle. Nods at a few of the players as they pass. It’s both really hard and really easy to make friends in these situations, but Korra’s not really in the mood just yet. 

But Kuvira is by the weights, of course, and Korra is not going to vary her routine just because she can’t pull it together today. Even if her preferred spot to stretch puts her in perfect view, by way of the wall mirror’s reflection, of where Kuvira is dropping into a low squat, one weight in each outstretched hand, her face bright and gleaming with purpose. Korra closes her eyes, re-inhabiting her own body instead, the electric burst of endorphins from her extra long run. When she opens them, Kuvira’s still there, her ab muscles flexing and tightening as she rises, then falls again, each movement smooth and controlled. Control. She possesses that in droves, it would seem. Always so poised, quietly observant, preternaturally calm. Fame didn’t make her louder, like it did most people. Korra closes her eyes again, changes the stretch to one that presses her face nearly into her shinbones, palms pressed to the ground. It hurts, which smothers the very recent memory of Kuvira’s arms, the thick, sculpted solidity of them. Shit.

“Stop,” Korra tells her shins in a clear, quiet voice, and then straightens, stretching upwards. But the fact of the matter is she’s got to do weights now, and Kuvira is still there, so que sera, sera. That’s French, right?

Kuvira is finishing a rep, setting down her barbells, breathing heavily as Korra approaches, catching her eye and giving her a nod. Even if she weren’t also wearing airpods, it’s rude to disrupt someone’s workout, teammate or not, even if this is your first time seeing each other in the country where you will both compete at opposite ends of a major tournament. 

Will this be Kuvira’s 24th championship trophy? Will this be Korra’s first? Korra huffs a small laugh despite herself as she selects her weights, finds a place a respectable enough distance away from Kuvira, who’s currently the only other person in this section. They don’t know each other well, but she doesn’t want to make it weird. Even if it is kind of cool, in a meet-cute way. Korra shakes her head to herself, closing her eyes briefly as she drops into one lunge after another, weights outstretched. Not meet-cute. This is not a movie. They’re just teammates, separated by age and experience. It’s not like they’d end up playing each other, anyway.

She cycles through sets and watches playback coverage of one of the men’s press conferences from earlier this morning on the mounted television in the back corner through the mirror’s reflection, Belgian hip hop still blaring in her ears. She feels Kuvira’s presence on her left but keeps her eyes fixed on the player’s mouths, the scrolling chyron on the bottom of the screen, somehow both hyper aware of every passing letter but its meaning eluding her the moment it hits her brain. There’s no reason for her to look left, and Kuvira’s close enough to her that she might accidentally catch her eye if she does, and since they both have earphones in it’d be pointless to try and say something to neutralize the awkward moment.

In conclusion, Korra should just keep watching this incredibly boring press conference. She glances left anyway, at where Kuvira’s in the middle of another set, at where the longest, wispiest hairs from the end of her braid brush the flushed skin of her exposed lower back. A few of them darken as they come into regular, rhythmic contact with her gleaming skin as she bends and straightens, growing damp with her sweat. Korra swallows, refocusing her attention forward as she grinds her jaw, disliking the pink tinge of her cheeks in the reflection. She does another lunge, and another, calves and thighs burning, aching. Time’s up, she’s supposed to look back at the TV right now, having indulged already, but she ignores that and glances at Kuvira again anyway, a brief, electric thrill running through her when she catches those green eyes in the mirror, holding her gaze for three seconds too long before snapping her eyes away and back to her own startled expression, looking straight ahead. She arranges her features back to normal and then finally refocuses on the TV in the corner, feeling that all-over buzz again. Shit. Shit. Was that weird, or was it just her? She has no way to confirm. 

She feels it when Kuvira finishes and sees from the corner of her eye when she replaces the weights, lowers herself to a bench and takes a long chug from her water bottle, throat working quickly. She hasn’t wiped her sweat, nor brushed away the shorter hairs sticking to her face. Then she gets up and Korra loses sight of her entirely, falling completely back out of her orbit, doesn’t see her again as she finishes her workout and heads into the showers. 

Doesn’t see her again, in fact, until Sunday, after they’ve both won their first respective rounds, celebrating at a bar a few blocks away from the stadium, sequestered enough from eager fans to afford the group relative privacy. The venue is cozy, but well-ventilated; it’s an unseasonably warm spring, and this many athletes drinking alcohol in an enclosed space run hot. 

Korra is nearly giddy with her win, cheeks sore from grinning all day, remembering how it feels to settle into her second favorite feeling in the world, the heady bliss of a recent victory, before the anxiety for the next match begins to creep in. Asami had shrieked so loudly over Facetime that it made Tenzin jump, even through the din of the crowd, and the looks on her parents’ faces as they spotted her from the stands after the game nearly made her cry. Two years really was a long time. 

But she’s here now, past the immediate shock and awestruck gratitude for it, ready to shake off some of the intensity. She makes some small talk with a few of the players, but soon breaks away to head to the bar, seeking momentary respite. And then remembers, with a sinking feeling, why it’s better to wait until someone else is going to get drinks to put in her order.

“Bonsoir. Avez-vous décidé?” The bartender waits patiently as Korra scans the board with a slight squint. Bière. Yes.

“Un bière.. S’il vous plaît.” The bartender purses his lips, nods in a way that tells Korra she said something wrong. “S’il... _te_ plaît?” Isn’t _tu_ the informal, and he a stranger, warranting _vous?_

“Bien sûr, mademoiselle, mais laquelle?” He gestures to the loopy cursive scrawl on the board, and Korra freezes, looking at it again. _Laque elle?_ Is that a term she should know? There are so many things written on the board that they now seem to swim together. She should have logged more DuoLingo hours, this is embarrassing.

“Which beer would you like?” a smooth, low voice asks, and Korra turns to find Kuvira standing beside her, not smiling, really, but there’s a slightest hint of humor in her expression. “Light or dark?” The early evening sun streaming through the window across from the bar illuminates the dark gleam of the braid resting on her shoulder, which is bare. Korra takes in her hunter green tube top, cuffed black jeans and black boots, and then realizes she’s been quiet too long, her eyes traveling back up to meet Kuvira’s. 

“Light,” she says, meaning dark, and Kuvira turns to the bartender and opens her mouth, and Korra has just enough time to think faintly, _oh no._

“Elle prend une blonde, s’il vous plaît. Et pour moi un whisky—Brenne.” The sinuous, throaty syllables flow like liquid from her lips, her accent completely indistinguishable from the rapid-fire ones Korra’s been struggling to parse since she landed at Charles de Gaulle. She has to look away, fingers clenched against her thighs, nails biting into the denim as the conversation continues without her input. 

“Très bien, bonne choix. Et désirez-vous de la glace, mademoiselle?”

“Mais non, merci.” The bartender smiles a bit and nods his approval, nods at Korra before moving away to prepare their drinks. Korra curls her hands into fists tightly, just once, and then releases them, taking a deep, quiet breath in. Kuvira’s lips twitch slightly and then she’s looking over to catch her gaze, her eyes sending a slow shiver through Korra. “You were excellent today, congratulations,” she says, and Korra blinks, stuck.

“You’re allowed to make fun of my shitty French,” she hears herself say, instead of thank you, like a normal person. “In fact, I’d prefer if you did.”

“What?” Kuvira asks after a brief hesitation, her expression faltering. She loses a bit of her self-assurance for just a second, amused confusion taking its place. “That...wouldn’t be very polite.”

“Well, yeah,” Korra says, like, _duh,_ but Kuvira’s giving her such a strange look that she just shakes her head, biting back a smile. This was going great so far. “Never mind. Thank you. And you too, wow. You destroyed that poor woman.” Kuvira’s opponent, a blond, lanky player from the UK, hadn’t come close to winning a single set. It wasn’t unexpected, exactly, but it was the kind of performance that earned Kuvira her reputation, to an almost absurd degree. Korra hates feeling intimidated, but she is, so she tries to make up for it in charm. “Did you even—”

“Et voilà,” the bartender interrupts, sliding their drinks over, and Korra stops talking, weirdly grateful. She can hear the echo of “destroyed that poor woman” and wants to backtrack. 

“Thank you,” she says unthinkingly, then, “I mean, merci.”

“Merci.” Kuvira picks up her drink and raises it expectantly, instead of turning around and leaving, so Korra clinks their glasses together, keeping her eyes on the other woman while she drinks. Kuvira meets her gaze again as she puts down her glass, tilts her head and narrows her eyes a bit. “What were you saying?”

“Oh,” Korra responds, shaking her head dismissively. “Just, you know, great match.” Did Kuvira actually say she was _excellent,_ or did she hallucinate that? “How does it feel? I guess you get that question a lot.”

Kuvira nods in acknowledgment, but sets her mouth in contemplation, like she doesn’t, indeed, get a dozen versions of this query twenty times a day with microphones shoved into her face. “It’s...normal, I would say,” she says finally, her hands curled around the squat, bulbous glass. “After this long, it’s about finding the thing that feels different.” She has a way of saying things like this, things that are both wildly cocky and impressively understated, that can only be borne of a true artist in their field, soaring for so long at the top of their game they’ve forgotten how it feels to scrape the ground. Kuvira takes another sip, slides her gaze back over to Korra. “And you. Out for two years.”

Korra blinks, taken aback. “No one just says it like that.”

Kuvira turns her head slightly, her eyes wary. “Does it offend you?”

“No. I mean, it _was_ —I mean, it happened.” Korra doesn’t want to talk about it, at all, but she does want to keep talking. “I guess I’m the inverse of you. This all feels wildly different, and I’m looking for some kind of normal.”

“Normal, like? Winning every title you set out for?”

“Well.” Korra pauses, looks over at her. Kuvira’s smirking into her glass. “Yeah. Exactly.”

“I followed your matches.” Kuvira licks a stray drop of amber liquid from her lip on her next sip. “You were pretty relentless.”

“You’d know something about that.” Korra’s mind spins with muted pleasure, with pride. She followed her matches, meaning what, exactly? All of them? “I didn’t know that…” she trails off, not sure how to verbalize her desire for clarity without coming off cloying, uncool. “Following in your footsteps, I guess,” is what she lands on.

Kuvira smirks, raises an eyebrow at her, and Korra’s pulse spikes dizzyingly, just for a second. “Should I be worried?” 

The words leave Korra’s lips before she can rethink them, at a pitch that’s a touch closer to the _sultry_ side of teasing than is probably appropriate. “Oh, absolutely.” She only has a moment to watch Kuvira’s mouth curve further upwards, her eyes traveling Korra’s face with careful suspicion before the bartender returns, lured by their empty glasses.

“Encore un autre, mademoiselles?”

“Oui,” Kuvira says, then glances over at the tables populated by their chattering teammates, back to Korra. “Unless I’m keeping you.”

“No, I’m—” Korra, truthfully, forgot about the rest of them. “It’s not—I’m fine here.”

Kuvira nods at the bartender. “Merci.” They fall silent again as he nods and whisks away their glasses. Korra glances down at herself, at her striped, fitted short-sleeved button down, ripped blue denim shorts. Sometimes it’s like she can feel every minute of every year that separates them, not that nine years is _too_ egregious a gap. Not past the mid-twenties, right? Kuvira looks over at her, and for a second, Korra feels a little lightheaded with panic, as if she’d somehow divined her thoughts. “So, Tenzin is your coach.”

Korra shakes her head slightly, recalibrating. “The one and only.” The place is growing rowdier, the players at the table behind them having erupted into song, and she has to speak a little louder to be heard. 

Kuvira leans in, presumably for the same reason, but Korra’s stomach dips when warm breath rushes against her cheek, her ear. “Funny story, a long time ago he used to date my mother’s sister.”

Korra knows this already, of course, but she’s so thrown by Kuvira prefacing anything with ‘funny story’ that she doesn’t have to feign her expression of shock. “No kidding! Small fucking world, right?”

“So they say.” When their refilled drinks arrive, Kuvira pulls out her wallet, ignoring the bartender’s obsequious refusals, gently firm as she presses the bills into his hand. It happens so quickly Korra barely has time to respond, much less stammer that she can handle it, which Kuvira graciously waves away anyway. 

“Thank you,” Korra says helplessly, feeling cowed, as usual, by the older woman’s self-assuredness, the quiet power of her own sphere of influence wherever she goes. “But the next one is on me.” Korra has no idea where the words come from, but the interested lip quirk she receives makes her glad she said it.

“The next one?”

“Yeah, you know, after we both crush in the second round.” It’s blasphemous to talk like this, but Korra has never cared for such petty superstitions, and she’s willing to bet that Kuvira shares her view.

“Bold words,” she offers, amused, after a thoughtful stretch of silence. “May want to reel it in for the pressers.”

“And ruin my reputation? Hell no.” The beer is light and crispy, perfectly cool, and Korra feels a little looser after a pint, edging into recklessness as she injects more teasing into her tone. “I don’t think you made it this far by being humble.” It’s a slight dig, a reference to a minor press dust-up from a few years back when some obnoxious paparazzi caught up with Kuvira on a bad day with goading questions, prompting her to snap the line that had quickly been emblazoned across headlines and news feeds for the next week: “Humility for humility’s sake is bullshit.”

Kuvira’s eyes fall to her drink as she chuckles, and then she looks back up, watching Korra as she takes a sip. Being pinned like this beneath her calculating green gaze is more intoxicating than any spirit on display behind the counter, to the extent that Korra has to take a generous swallow as well. She’s not supposed to indulge this particular weakness of hers, of course, but how is she supposed to withstand Kuvira’s magnetism at this short a range? Korra is strong, but not that strong. 

“Ever heard the phrase ‘pay your dues to sing the blues?’” Kuvira is making fun of her now, she knows it, and her blatant lack of concern for whether she’s possibly saying something in poor taste makes Korra smile. She must be feeling the liquor too. 

“Can’t I do both simultaneously?” Korra returns easily. 

“Traditionally, no.”

“Well, I’m not too fussed about tradition anyway.” 

That earns her a wider smile, and if it stops Korra’s breath for a millisecond, no one else needs to know. “Clearly.”

Kuvira’s nearly finished with her drink, and Korra realizes that means she’s probably leaving soon. The thought is disappointing, but not surprising: Kuvira rarely stays out at events like this, preferring to make a brief, obligatory appearance and exiting soon thereafter. The fact that she’s decided to spend this much time speaking to Korra is flattering, and likely more encouraging than is wise. She wants to say something witty and devastating, a mysterious note to end on, but instead what comes out is: “So I have yet to try macaroons.”

Kuvira shakes her head once, as if not sure she’d heard Korra correctly. Korra’s face burns a bit at the puzzled look she receives, but rather than judgmental, Kuvira just looks amused. “You don’t say.”

“Any suggestions for a first-timer?” Korra will salvage this, somehow, she has to. “Asami said something about La...Dernier? That’s probably wrong.”

“La Durée.”

“La Doo...rrray.” She’s never been able to roll her r in that very particular French way, somewhere high in the throat without dipping into _guttural,_ exactly, and the attempt sounds ten times worse after Kuvira’s flawless intonation. She feels the resulting shame a little less acutely when Kuvira grins, then quickly attempts to smother it, clearly suppressing a laugh.

“Okay, you were right. Your French sucks.”

Korra opens her mouth to respond when there’s suddenly an arm slung over her shoulder, attached to one of the rowdiest players of the bunch, an overly buff Canadian who, for whatever reason, seems to have taken a liking to her. “Korra! Hi Kuvira! Are you two going to deprive us of your splendor all night?”

“Hi, Bolin.” Korra shoots him a grin, looks back at Kuvira, who’s nodding at him politely. “One second?”

“Sure! We’ll be here.” He raps the knuckles of one hand on the bar quickly before slipping away to rejoin the group, and Kuvira drains her glass, thanks the bartender. Then she slants a look over to Korra, nodding to herself.

“I have a few interviews tomorrow, but what are you doing Tuesday afternoon?”

“Photo shoot.” Some teen magazine that she’d never heard of, but they’d pleaded so sweetly, and Korra couldn’t turn it down. “But I should be out by five-ish?”

“That works.” She slides her phone out from her pocket, swipes to unlock it, and hands it to Korra. “Here, we’ll coordinate day of.” 

Korra wills her fingers not to shake as she enters her number in her contacts, resisting the urge to do a quick scroll, see who else is lurking in her phone book. It’s hard to imagine Kuvira Beifong doing something as mundane as texting, but she has to stop thinking about her this way, with her first and last name, because now it’s officially weird. “Sounds good,” she offers lamely, a bit dazed with the impending reality of spending more time with Kuvira, alone, gallivanting around Paris as if they’re...friends? Or just something close to it?

“Can I have that back now?” Kuvira asks, and Korra jumps, face turning scarlet as she’s jerked out of her reverie. She double checks that she’s correctly entered her number and then extends the phone to Kuvira, who’s watching her with a puzzled smile. Her expression doesn’t shift when their fingers brush together, so Korra does her best to ignore the sensation. 

“Sorry, here.”

“Enjoy your night,” Kuvira says, sliding easily off her stool, patting her pockets as she stands, tucking a loose piece of hair behind one ear. “Korra.”

“You too...see you around.” She watches as the other players lower their volume somewhat, a few rising to exchange pleasant, fawning words with Kuvira, eager to capture some of her attention before she exits. There are a few who mutter darkly among themselves as she passes, or simply remain silent and watchful—namely, the Russian player she’s slated to go up against in the second round—but there’s a telltale shift in the air when the door closes behind her, somewhere between relief and awe. When Korra finally makes her way over to Bolin’s booth, shuffling in as he makes space for her without interrupting his eager play by play of his older brother’s game, she receives a few interested glances as well.

Korra sips her beer, ignoring them, focusing on Bolin instead, laughing when Mako leans across the table to tousle his hair. 

Let them wonder. 

* * *

**You know, I can’t believe you didn’t like any of the flavors. Not even one.**

I’m sorryyyyyy but no one told me macaroons were such a weird texture! 🤨

**That’s because they’re not. It’s a you problem.**

okay, well, whose gonna beat my ass about it?

who’s*

**I don’t have an answer for you there.**

guess I’ll just have to try another parisian delicacy. what are your thoughts on escargot?

**Are you eighty years old?**

frog legs?? 🐸🐸🐸

**Korra.**

idk!! surprise me. you’re clearly the expert here

**Fine. We’ll get falafels in Le Marais.**

...seriously? Who goes to Paris for the falafels? I had one the night before I flew here

**After you taste this one, you’ll forget about the others.**

oh... okay.

**I’m signing off. Good luck out there tomorrow, wildcard. 👍🏼**

you too 😉good night

* * *

Korra wins in the second round. The third. And, despite an unfortunate incident involving a cranky umpire and a warning, the fourth.

So does Kuvira, but everyone is expecting that.

“Holy shit, Korra. What if you two end up playing each other in—”

“Don’t finish that,” Korra interrupts, pulse racing, as it always does when she thinks of Kuvira, but even more so when she lets her imagination spin off into the very scenario Asami is about to describe. She peruses the sports blogs and scrolls through the speculative tweets—though she knows she shouldn’t—and the reporters at the pressers have been excitedly hinting at the possibility with each successive win: an American women’s blowout in the final round. 

Kuvira has never brought it up, but there’s a particular density to their silences now, even as they share a bag of madeleines while lying in the grass of the Luxembourg gardens, swap stories of past nightmare umpires while jogging along the Saint-Martin. Korra hasn’t seen her yet this week, having opted to skip the post-match festivities to have a proper catch up with Asami, but she’s curious as to how their eventual conversation will go, now that they stare down the barrel of quarterfinals. 

“Okay, well, I _guess_ the odds are still…” Asami trails off, but Korra knows that perched eyebrow and set jaw means Asami is just humoring her. “Fine. Anyway! Aside from the matches, the fame, blah blah, how are you? Like, for real. No bullshit.”

Korra settles back in bed, careful to keep her laptop balanced in her lap as she leans against the propped up pillows. The early evening sunlight spills warmly into her room through the open balcony doors, admitting the occasional car horn and snippet of loud conversation from the street several floors down. “Really...good, actually. It feels good to be back in it. I guess I was more ready than I thought. And it’s kind of hard to be sad here.”

“Paris in springtime,” Asami muses, her face wistful. “My first Roland-Garros was awful, but the city itself was amazing. Is your French getting any better?”

Korra snorts. “Barely. Kuvira’s been—” she stops, her face warming as Asami‘s head straightens, eyes widening expectantly. 

“Kuvira’s been...what???”

“Uh, teaching me French? Sort of.”

Asami actually sits forward, resting her elbows on the dining room table, her face alight with interest. “Korra, you said you got a drink with her _once.”_

“I said that, huh…”

“That’s very different than what I’m hearing right now. What’s going on?”

Korra rolls her head back to rest on the pillow, expelling a breath of air. “We’ve kind of been hanging out a lot? I guess we’re friends, I don’t know.”

“So you’ve made friends with your crush.” When Korra’s head shoots back up, Asami is fixing her with a triumphant, crafty smile. “I knew you were a woman on a mission, but wow. Wow.”

“It’s not like that.”

“Oh, it’s not like that?”

“No, we—I don’t even know if—” she falls silent again, but this time, because Asami is holding up a hand, brows furrowed as she looks down at something just out of the frame of the Facetime call. In the next second Korra hears it: the tinny sound of Zumi’s cries filtered through the baby monitor. 

“Hang on,” Asami says, pushing back her chair and rising to cross quickly to where the kitchen meets the hallway, bracing herself against the tall doorframe. “Baaabe, can you get her please? I’m talking to Korra.” She comes back to sit, giving Korra a longsuffering look. 

“I wanna see my goddaughter!”

“It’s his turn,” Asami informs her tiredly, and a second later Iroh comes jogging out from the hallway, bending to drop a kiss on Asami’s head, then stooping a bit lower to wave at Korra with a grin.

“Hey champ! Congrats on the wins, you’re on fire! Been bragging about you to my buddies!”

“Bottle,” Asami reminds him, accepting another kiss with a small smile.

“Thanks, Iroh!” Korra bites her lip, giggling silently at Asami as he backtracks to the fridge, and Asami rolls her eyes good-naturedly at her in return. When he disappears up the stairs, Asami waits until the cries stop, then sighs in relief.

“So the downside of you winning this whole fucking thing is that he will literally never stop calling you _champ,”_ Asami says, resting her chin in her palm, shoulders shaking in resigned laughter.

“I think that’s a fair trade,” Korra snorts. “I still can’t believe you married that nerd.”

“I know, right.” Asami stretches, yawns, begins pulling her hair up into a loose, sloppy bun. “Eh, he’s alright, I guess.”

Korra grins. “And she isn’t wearing you out too much? I do want to see her, by the way.”

Asami shoots her a forbidding look. “No extra excitement during witching hours, please. I’ll send you some videos later. But honestly, since her frenotomy healed up it’s been a lot better. And Iroh has _actually_ been committed to sharing the load, and he can make his own hours, so that helps. I mean, overall, we have no idea what the hell we’re doing, so. Just in the trenches every day.”

“It’s been over a month and she’s still alive, that’s something!”

Asami points at Korra knowingly and nods. “I’ll take it.”

“Well, from here it looks like you guys are doing a great job. You seem really happy, ‘Sami.”

Asami hums contemplatively, gazing down at her hands for a few moments, then smiles in a way that makes Korra’s ears warm, for some reason. It’s...pure, unfiltered joy, however blunted by the hours of sleep she’s been missing, and it makes Korra feel both elated and a little sad. “You know what, Korra? I am. I really, really can’t complain.” She pauses, laughs ruefully. “Well, ask me again in a week when his mom gets here, that’ll be the real test.”

Korra winces in sympathy. “Right. Well, that sounds like...more help for a while, at least? And more sleep?”

“And more scrutiny from one of the most terrifying women that I’ve ever met, absolutely. But you’re right.” Asami shoots her a mock glare. “Now tell me more about Kuvira. Pleeeease?”

Korra shakes her head, groaning. “I just...Asami, what if I actually _do_ end up playing her? I hate to even say it out loud.”

“Then you’ll beat her, and she’ll cry on television for the very first time.”

“Hilarious.”

“Korra, it’s a pointless hypothetical. But okay! I can tell you’re not ready to talk. So I’ll be patient. But just admit that you like her.”

“I hate you.”

“You love me, actually.”

Korra grits her jaw, looks out of her window, to the park across the street. There’s a little girl kicking a soccer ball, her pigtails bouncing as she dribbles it between her feet, trailed by a teenage girl who’s chattering on her phone. “Yeah, yeah. I mean, fine. I...like her.”

Asami huffs a quiet laugh, shooting Korra a fond, wry grin. “Was that so hard?”

* * *

It _was_ hard, actually, and getting harder by the day. 

The pressure from all angles is becoming nearly untenable: Tenzin’s fervor is palpable, and though he stresses the importance of not overtraining, Korra still leaves her sessions with him feeling worked to the bone. Her parents try to walk the fine line between excitement and absolute terror of her losing with all the grace of twin bulls in a china shop, her father being, as usual, the most chaotic. She’s too on edge to hang in the bars with the others much, disliking the weird, sort of rabid energy that infuses the players at this stage of a tournament, as well as the incessant questions. She’ll get a drink here and there with Bolin and Mako, and Zhu Li, a player from China, is pleasant enough to chat with when they run into each other in their hotel. But then she wins against Spain, setting up her to be Korra’s opponent in the quarterfinals, and things grow a bit chilly between them after that. 

Yet through it all, the one thing Korra can rely on is Kuvira’s quiet, steady presence, whether they’re heading to the gym together or texting about their favorite John Hughes movies or, to Kuvira’s endless amusement and Korra’s rising humiliation, practicing French.

“How many?”

“Combien?”

“Over there.”

“Là bas.”

“Where is she?”

“Quoi...no.” Korra stops at the disapproving look on Kuvira’s face, tipping her head this way and that as she racks her brain. They’re reclined in the grass at the Butte-Charmont, the considerable trek well worth it to avoid the increasing hordes of press that seem to pop up wherever they go. These are the consequences of advancing so far in a tournament, Korra knows, and while she takes some comfort in the knowledge that this is a song and dance that Kuvira’s well-acquainted to, it’s still...discomfiting, a bit, to experience it herself. “Est-ce que—elle, uh?”

“Où est-elle?”

“Wow, I was way off.”

“Or elle est où? Yeah, you were. You’re getting better though.”

“Not according to that waitress the other day.”

Kuvira thinks for a moment, then laughs in recollection. “Well, you asked her for an entire _pig._ At least use a partitive article.”

“I meant ham! Same thing! And please don't ever say the words _partitive article_ at me again, nerd.” Korra quests within the grocery bag for a chocolate bar and begins unwrapping, shooting Kuvira a warning glance. “Don’t judge me.”

“I didn’t say anything.” Her diet is so clean it’s offensive to Korra, with the very important exception of falafels, which Korra doesn’t count anyway. 

“Tenzin used to give me chocolate sometimes...when I was training. Right after.” Korra stares at several birds as they caw and peck around the base of a nearby fountain, avoiding Kuvira’s attentive gaze. “Even the smallest indulgences made the pain a little more bearable. Sometimes I can’t believe I’ve been working with him since I was eight.”

Kuvira hums thoughtfully, and there’s a comfortable silence for a little while. Korra’s nearly done with her chocolate, and she looks over at Kuvira, who’s looking down at her hands, which are plucking at the grass. “I ran away when I was eight.”

Korra swallows a too-big chunk and chokes slightly, sitting up quickly and taking a sip of water. Kuvira’s watching her with an expression that’s somewhere between wearied and amused, like Korra is a particularly strange museum exhibit that lacks a placard for context. “Sorry,” Korra wheezes, eyes watering. “Wrong pipe. Wasn’t expecting that.”

“I don’t talk about it much.”

“Continue. Please.”

“Are you okay?”

Korra nods, shakes her head, takes another sip. “Why did you run away?” she asks, voice still raspier than usual, but desperate to rid herself of the spotlight. Because come to think of it, Kuvira’s early childhood was always a mystery, glossed over in all of her magazine profiles, and the Early Life paragraph of her Wikipedia page has always been rather anemic.

Kuvira resumes her restless plucking, crossing her long legs at the ankle. “I had...behavior issues, I guess. I was constantly in trouble at school and at home. My parents weren’t—well. They couldn’t handle it. My running off was the last straw. I don’t remember a lot in between, but Suyin took me in, eventually.”

“Wow. I.” Korra crosses her legs, turning to face Kuvira. She isn’t sure what the hell to say, or why she’s earned such a personal confession, but she knows this moment is significant, even if Kuvira is trying to approach it with her usual nonchalance. “I had no idea.”

“How could you?”

“No, I just meant.” Korra chews her lip for a moment, decides to change tacks. Now that she’s learned a little, she has to know more. “So that’s why you and Suyin are so…”

Kuvira looks over, her thick, long hair loose, pooling in the grass. She has sunglasses on, but Korra can tell just from the set of her brows that her face is speculative, a bit wary. “So what?”

Korra isn’t sure what to say, how to politely express what she knows Kuvira has also seen in the tabloids: the bloodthirsty coverage of their highly contentious relationship, the endless gossip around Suyin’s abusive coaching and Kuvira’s acerbic recriminations, made all the more salacious by the fact that they’re family. Korra decides to take a page out of Kuvira’s book, be blunt. “It seems like you’re at each other’s throats, like, every other week.”

“Well.” Kuvira snorts, tipping her head back, shaking her hair out of her face. “She’s an incredible coach. I can't deny that. She’s helped to make me the player I am. But as a mother?” Korra’s barely aware of watching her, noting the way the leaf-dappled sunlight of their partially shaded spot plays across her cheekbones as she speaks, admiring the small beauty mark beneath her right eye, the familiar timber of her voice, pitched low, calm. She’s in all black again today: from her t-shirt to her shorts to her shoes, her skin gently tanned after multiple days in the direct, warmer-than-usual springtime sun. When she glances over at Korra, she hitches her sunglasses up to rest on her head, finally revealing those eyes that put the miles of impeccably manicured lawn around them to shame. “There’s a reason I don’t share that with many people.”

Then why share it with me? Korra wants to ask. Or maybe, what is the reason? Or even, do you think that’s why you don’t seem to have many close friends, because you keep yourself so tightly guarded? What she says instead is, “I’m glad you told me.”

She watches Korra for a few moments longer, then sits up, brushing off her hands, to peer into the grocery bag. “Moon has a weak left swing,” she says casually, unearthing a clementine and sitting back to peel it. “Minor sprain last year, and it started flaring up again yesterday.”

_“Yesterday?”_ Korra narrows her eyes. “What, do you have spies watching your opponent’s secret practice sessions?” Zhu Li isn’t Kuvira’s opponent, though; they both know that.

Kuvira shrugs, her thumb continuing to work at the rind. “Just a tip.”

“You’re a little creepy sometimes, you know?” She chuckles when Kuvira tosses her a wink, crooks her fingers twice beseechingly. “Give me some of that.”

“Most people would say thank you.”

“Merci,” Korra replies sarcastically, smoothly catching the half that Kuvira tosses into her palm. “Um, pour ça...aussi?”

Kuvira raises an eyebrow, impressed. “Pas mal du tout.”

“You’re a good teacher,” Korra says, meaning it. She pops a slice into her mouth and then her words are running away from her faster than she can catch them. “And a lot easier on the eyes than the DuoLingo owl.” She closes her eyes briefly in dismay, her entire body flushing with heat. When she gathers the courage to look up again, Kuvira’s chewing, squinting into the distance with a braced expression, like she’s trying not to smile.

“It’s...good to know I’m more attractive than a cartoon owl?”

“I mean, I have kinks, but that’s not one of them.” Korra shoves two more clementine slices into her mouth to prevent anything else from coming out, glances down desperately at the empty chocolate wrapper, as if trying to discern if it was laced with something. “Anyway. Yes. I appreciate the tip.” 

It’s the kind of attentiveness that Tenzin is always trying to hammer into her, and maybe she would have sussed it out on the court, but there is something to be said for going in armed with this knowledge beforehand, rather than relying, yet again, on brute strength. She wonders if Kuvira is watching _her_ like that, keeping tabs on how her past injury might manifest, should they actually wind up on opposite sides of the net. The thought gives her a slight chill, though the goosebumps that rise on the back of neck and across her arms feel less like fear and more like intrigued arousal. 

“What are you thinking about?” Kuvira asks, and Korra’s stomach performs a slow backflip as she looks over at her, mouth going dry despite the fruit she’d very recently inhaled. Her mind churns through several responses, all lies, and she decides to complete the trifecta of unabashed honesty, intentional this time. In a sense.

“I mean, I think you know,” she says simply, letting the silence fill, and Kuvira’s lips curl upward into a smirk that sets Korra’s nerve endings alight. 

“I think I do too.”

And then, suddenly, it's _Korra_ who doesn’t know if they’re talking about the potentiality of a championship match, or something _else_ entirely, and the likelihood of both suddenly feels laughably impossible and deeply inevitable. And then there’s a strange sound, one that seems incongruous with the setting. Kuvira’s head whips around as she rises to sitting, and then the sound comes again: a click.

“Are you fucking kidding me,” she mutters angrily, securing her sunglasses back over her face and turning to Korra, who’s already packing their bag, rising to stand. Her sunglasses are in her pocket, and she’s just able to shove them on before a squat, sunburnt man emerges from a nearby bush, camera still raised to his face, shameless about the next blinding flash. 

“Seriously?” Korra snaps, but Kuvira just closes a firm hand around her upper arm, leading her quickly in the opposite direction, but not before giving him the finger. “What, come on, I could have smashed that film. He would never see it coming.”

Kuvira snorts, her strides long and quick, and Korra easily keeps up. “Easy, tiger. Bad time for a scandal, believe me.”

“Yeah, yeah. Here, let’s just get this one.” Korra flags down a taxi and they quickly shuffle into the back, Kuvira rattling off the name of their hotel as they peel away from the curb. 

“Il va pleuvoir maintenant, vous savez, les dames?” the driver says knowingly, tapping his window. Korra wonders why he’s talking about crying when a sudden clap of thunder quickly clarifies things. Pleurer, to cry; pleuvoir, to rain. Then he says something else, and Kuvira's dismayed, incredulous response tells Korra that their evening is likely about to become even more interesting.

“What is it?”

“The main street to the hotel is closed because the president is here for the quarterfinal,” Kuvira says, peering out of the window and missing the way Korra swallows against a sudden rush of nerves. “And the side streets are blocked off too. He has to drop us off at the next corner.” Her words are punctuated by the sky opening up to release a vicious downpour that clatters against the windows, drums deafeningly against the roof of the car. 

“But we’re still like six blocks from—”

“Yeah.” Kuvira turns, raises an eyebrow in challenge as the taxi lumbers to a stop. “Hope you’re ready to get wet.”

Korra releases a breath, then grins, fumbling in her wallet for cash, handing it to the driver. “Okay, fuck it, let’s go.” And then Kuvira swings the door open and they’re outside and instantly drenched to the bone, sprinting up the narrow sidewalk, dodging the other hustling pedestrians who were caught out without umbrellas, sideswiping fruit carts and hurtling over overturned crates. At the next intersection Kuvira is nearly trampled by a teenage boy trying to regain control of his bike as it skids across rivulets of water, and Korra yelps in alarm as she grabs her arm, yanking her backward. The shocked look she receives in return makes her burst into relieved laughter, despite the fact that she can barely see anything in the rushing grey downpour, and without thinking she laces their fingers together as they continue on their mad dash, finally skidding to a stop beneath the awning of the deserted hotel entryway to catch their breath.

“Well,” Korra huffs, and Kuvira looks over at her questioningly, her hair plastered to her scalp, hanging heavy against her flushed face. “At least we know there’s no way that pap was able to keep his footage.”

Kuvira laughs, then steps right into Korra’s space to ruffle her hair, wearing the most playful grin Korra’s seen to date. “You look _exactly_ like a wet cat.”

“And you look like a wet dog!” Korra returns, affronted, fisting a hand into the front of Kuvira’s waterlogged shirt to tug her in closer, scarcely aware of what she’s doing until Kuvira’s smirking mouth is mere inches from hers, both of them now breathing hard for an entirely different reason. The next clap of thunder and accompanying flash of lightning makes Korra jump, and Kuvira laughs softly, steadying her with firm hands on her waist, and Korra isn’t sure who leans in first but it doesn’t matter because the kiss is as fevered and dogged as the sudden storm, the weakening dam finally burst. Korra can hardly think or breathe, her heart racing in time with the rapid staccato of raindrops pounding the pavement as she curls her tongue against Kuvira’s and clutches her even closer, curling her hands around the back of her head, sinking into wet hair. Kuvira’s fingers find their way beneath Korra’s clinging shirt to grasp and scratch at damp skin as she sucks on Korra’s lip, her tongue, then switches to bites, and Korra isn’t completely sure who those small, breathy moans she’s hearing belong to, but it doesn’t matter, she doesn’t care, because Kuvira is—

Pulling away.

Korra reaches unthinkingly for her with a thin, reedy whine that she’ll remember and furiously regret later, but Kuvira is solid as a rock, holding Korra firmly away, shaking her head. 

“What, what’s wrong?”

Kuvira looks resolute as she speaks, in spite of her flushed face, her swollen, kiss-bitten lips. “We can’t, not…now. This isn’t a good idea.” Her eyes are wide, bright with something like desperation, or maybe like fear, and all Korra can do is clench her jaw, nodding, willing the fog to clear. Kuvira is saying no, so, it’s a no. 

“Oh. I—sorry, I—”

“Don’t apologize. Please. We should just probably—” Kuvira steps away, visibly exhaling, and gestures to the doors. “I’m going inside. I’ll...see you. Okay?”

“Uh, yeah, okay.”

When the door closes behind her, Korra buries her face in her hands and yells for exactly ten seconds before trudging up to her room, peeling off her wet clothes, and collapsing naked, and numb, into bed. 

* * *

_MODERATOR: Questions in English._

_Q: From your perspective, as a player who likes to hit the winners and wants to go for her shots, how do you deal with the frustration when you know you're playing an opponent like Moon who is just trying to bait you into making errors? I would think that that would be a frustrating, a very tough thing to deal with._

_KORRA: I mean, my racket just magically flew out of my hand (smiling). I couldn't control it. Sorry, Babolat._

_That’s just how I handled my frustration. I’m not very proud of it, I know it was immature. I know that was kind of my schtick back in the day, and I’d like to think I’ve evolved past that..._

_Yeah, it's really tough, because you start thinking, like, she's not hitting winners. You're the one making all the errors. And you try to tell yourself not to make that many errors, but you have to go for those balls._

_So it's, like, you're walking a very fine line between, like, being very aggressive or attempting to push, but that's her game. So it's very hard. And, I’m sorry, but I just didn’t come here to lose._

_Q: After the match I saw this adorable moment of fans fawning over you, asking for your autograph, pictures, and so on. I'm curious, this is your big comeback, you’ve been out of this game for a while, and now suddenly you’re facing all of this attention as you progress through this tournament. Does it get overwhelming? What’s in your head as you’re dealing with all of this?_

_KORRA: Yeah, I mean, it’s overwhelming for sure, but I also remember that experience? Like, I don’t think I’ll ever forget the feeling of hopping into my car, or begging for rides to matches and waiting afterward, hoping I’ll get to talk to the players. So I feel like I have to pay it forward, I guess. It’s a blessing at the same time that it’s...unnerving, a bit, I guess._

_Q: You know I have to ask._

_KORRA: (laughs) Okay, that’s ominous. But yeah, I know._

_Q: Looking ahead, they're still playing, but Piandao or especially Beifong, can you talk through each one of those matchups, what you think will be key there?_

_KORRA: Okay. I didn't look at the draw, so you just told me._

_Q: Well—_

_KORRA: No, it's cool. I would have found out. I played Piandao a few times, so I'm kind of familiar with her game. But I obviously haven't played her recently, so I'm not sure how that's going to match up. I just know she was really tough to play against in the previous times, really scrappy. And Beifong, I've never played with before, but I know her game, I think. She has a great serve, clean lines, sharp angles...it’s, you know, like watching poetry, I guess._

_Q: Like poetry? Really? You sound like an admirer._

_KORRA: Well. Yeah, anyway, both of them are like really good competitors, which is pretty obvious, so I’m going into this with my eyes wide open._

* * *

The text from Asami comes in at 2:05 in the morning.

**Um hello did you see this??? l o l 🙃**

Korra squints at her phone in the darkness, clicking on the embedded link. It opens a tweet that features a crystal clear photo of her and Kuvira from about a week ago, seated at a sidewalk cafe somewhere in the 7th. Kuvira is wearing those dark mirrored sunglasses again, her hair loose and swept over one shoulder, bangs falling into her face as she looks across the table at Korra. They’re both in exercise gear, as this rendezvous was a post-training session one, and Korra, thankfully, doesn’t look too rough compared to her ever-unruffled companion: her sunglasses resting on her head, pushing her nearly-shoulder length hair back from her face, gesticulating as she speaks. 

But it’s the expressions that Korra can’t help but zoom in on. It’s her own face, so open and animated as she explains—what? What had they been talking about?—to Kuvira, whose head is tilted towards her, eyes not visible but clearly listening, a small, fond smile on her lips. She likes to sit forward in her seat with her forearms braced on the table, legs spread, as if she can’t help but dominate every space she inhabits, and it’s a quirk that Korra remembers with an uncomfortable jolt, moving her thumbs quickly to let the image shrink again. 

**Hello!! I know you, I know you’re up**

uh yeah this was my first time seeing it

**Did you actually read the tweet(s)?**

Korra frowns and reopens her Twitter app, taking note of the text that accompanies the photo for the first time.

**bottom for athletez | she/they**

**@wimbled0n_hoe**

I AM SORRY BUT UM . . . don’t sn*pe me I know you shouldn’t s**p real people but why are they out here looking like THAT . . . are they, u know ???? 👀

Korra reads it again, incredulous, then scrolls. There are a few replies, some containing more photos lifted from news sites, mostly generic press conference fare, but a few in the same vein as the first: Korra and Kuvira walking down the Champs Élysées with mini-tubs of frozen yogurt in hand, Korra standing within a crush of people grinning widely at Kuvira after her third round win, Kuvira giving her that trademark lip curl, eyes soft, even as reporters and fans and handlers swarm her, demanding her attention.

**Junie B Jones and the B stands for Billie Jean King**

**@stickyracketz**

_Replying to @wimbled0n_hoe_

didnt Kuvira used to date that guy Bataar or Baatar or w/e idk? he was kind of cute btu also weird,,,, for like a yEAr/??

**FRENCH GRAND SLAM BABEY**

**@takeme2thequeeeeeen**

_Replying to @stickyracketz_

we don’t discuss that. the way he’s lowkey related to s*y*n chile……… 🥴🥴🥴

**bottom for athletez | she/they**

**@wimbled0n_hoe**

_Replying to @takeme2thequeeeeeen_

KDJDKLSDJFA;SDKLFJDS 

**Minnie is in Paris!!! | she/her**

**@beifongsupremacist**

_Replying to @takeme2thequeeeeeen_

It was never confirmed they were actually together it was all rumors you guys PLEASE

**Minnie is in Paris!!! | she/her**

**@beifongsupremacist**

_Replying to @beifongsupremacist_

ANYWAY can we get back to Korra bc I love her and if they actually play each other I may just pass away before match point-

Korra closes the app decisively, face burning, and goes back to her texts from Asami.

**Okay I guess you’re reading**

**So that’s...something! Don’t ask how I found it, all I do is doom scroll while I'm hooked up to this milking machine 🐮**

**I know things are getting real right now to say the least...so we can talk later!**

**Anyway you should be asleep. Sorry lol.**

**But we are TALKING LATER (!) again, to be clear**

sorry, yeah just finished reading. enough of that I think

**Can I ask what’s...happening in the K department? A three word summary?**

Korra shifts her jaw back and forth, deliberating, then exhales a rueful laugh as she types.

kiss!!! rejection? SILENCE 😎🔫

**…?????!!!! Ugh what.**

**Do you want to talk about it? Are you okay?**

no and yeah, I’m fine. other things on my mind. ha.

**I get it. Please get some sleep. We’ll discuss. Zoom says she misses you. She almost bit my nipple off earlier btw 🤪**

I thought she didn’t have any teeth yet?!

**She doesn’t.**

YIKES, ummm I’m sure she didn’t mean it lol. extra kisses and hugs from auntie korra pleeeeeaaaaase!

**Of course. I love you Korra, I’m SO so proud of you, seriously**

motherhood has made you such a sap wow

**Shut up and accept my hormonal love!!! 😡🔪**

I love you too. try not to lose any nipples.

**Will do my best**

* * *

_THE MODERATOR: Questions in English, please._

_Q: How would you assess your own game? Do you think you're getting better with each match?_

_KUVIRA BEIFONG: I think I had a strong start, especially in the first set. Everything I needed to get done, I did. I was really hitting just all the right shots, making little to no errors, which is kind of hard to play like that. But it was good._

_Q: In this period you've won 23 out of your 32 grand slams, your ranking is a very dominant No. 1, your head-to-heads against your rivals are incredible. Can you talk a little about your dominance? Is that something that gives you satisfaction? Do you give yourself permission to reflect on this incredible record?_

_KUVIRA BEIFONG: You know, not really. Not yet. I feel like when I play tougher opponents, when I play people who have beaten me in the past, I have to keep my head on straight, just focus on what’s directly in front of me. It’s how I’ve been taught and trained, and it’s what’s gotten me this far, I think._

_I've always said that when I'm playing at my best, it's difficult to beat me. Have I played at my best my whole career? I don't know. But I've been trying to put in a lot of work and always continue to improve._

_Q: We've had a couple of your opponents sit in that chair in recent days and say how motivating and inspiring it is to play against you. How humbling is that to hear from your peers, your opponents?_

_KUVIRA BEIFONG: It's incredible. I’m beyond honored. And what’s better, it’s apparent from the skill level and the effort I see on the court as well, the passion that everyone is bringing to bear every day. It inspired me to be a better player, too, because I'm going up against these players that are playing at their peak. So I have to be at my peak, as well, for every single game._

_Q: You could play Kyoshi in the final. What will your thoughts be on that matchup on that sort of stage?_

_KUVIRA BEIFONG: Well, she took out a really tough opponent in June. You really can't underestimate Kyoshi. It’s interesting because we’ve only played each other one time before. But I know that she brings a lot, you know, to the game._

_Her being lefty definitely helps out as well. I haven't played any lefties yet. But we'll see. I think if I do play her, it will be a really good match. It definitely won't be easy._

_Q: If it's Korra, it would be the first time in your career you would have faced somebody for the first time in a slam final._

_KUVIRA BEIFONG: It will be the first time for both of us. That will be fascinating, too. She’s solid. I've been following her for a while now. She hardly ever loses. It's not surprising to me that she's doing so well._

_She's been very consistent in this tournament already. She's proven that she wants to take her game to the next level. From the beginning of her career, it’s clear she’s not messing around. And then to return after an injury and immediately advance to a potential final already tells you that if she puts her mind to something, she's going to do it._

* * *

Korra is intentional about escaping to the training facility at a very late hour, needing to just smash away the nerves with her racket, but the lights are up in one of the practice courts, much to her dismay. She’s run out of patience for platitudes and well-wishes, entirely too on edge to do anything but focus on the following day, and then the day after that. 

And still, her phone is silent, but she isn’t thinking about that. Nor about her.

She purposefully doesn’t peek through the translucent door panel of the lit court, half afraid of who she’d see, electing to pass right by and enter another one a few doors down, dropping her bag onto the ground before stooping to retrieve her racket and several balls. Just the sharp thwack of the ball as she powers it into the opposite court, practicing her feints and backhanded serves, aiming for very specific angles—it helps, just a bit, to quiet the clamor in her mind.

Anxiety. Disbelief. Exhilaration. Dread.

She pictures Katara’s face, all wizened and understanding, but concealing a heart of absolute gold—in that it’s both a precious resource, and completely unyielding. Katara had a set time limit on Korra’s tearful explosions of self-doubt and self-pitying complaints, she’d made that abundantly clear. Even so: when Korra despaired that she’d never walk again, Katara never entertained her fears, but she didn’t dismiss them, either.

_Thwack. Thwack. Thwack._ She’s working up a good sweat, forcing herself to jog, not walk, to retrieve the balls she sends flying. She’s so amped up that she has to duck a few times as an over-enthusiastic serve sends the ball ricocheting off the opposite wall and flying back to meet her. 

She’d been too numb to muster any tears at the funeral, for which she’d felt enormous guilt for weeks. In fact, she had to bite back a burst of hysterical laughter as proceedings began, all dour and quiet, feeling as if she were having an out-of-body experience. How could Katara be gone, when just the week prior, she’d sat next to Korra, teaching her how to French braid Ikki’s hair? When she’d lovingly bullied Tenzin over dinner to the point that his entire pasty head had glowed red? When she was one of the first to call Korra after she’d learned she was going to play the Roland-Garros, her voice as steady and assured as always, telling her she’d already made her proud, that she’d proven her strength and her worth ten times over, championship trophy or not? How could such a giant of a woman, all five and a half feet of her, be truly gone? Forever?

“Easy, or you’ll have to pay for damages. You’re about to put a hole through that wall.”

Korra jumps, hurriedly swiping at the tears that threaten to spill, her chest growing uncomfortably tight at the familiar low voice. She turns, panting, to see Kuvira leaning against the doorframe, outfitted in workout gear and covered in a light sheen of sweat, her trademark green racket held loosely in her hand. Her gaze is wary, as if she’s hesitant, or nervous. Which doesn’t make any sense, since she was the one to slam the brakes on whatever Korra may have once thought was happening.

Which was stupid in the first place, anyway. She’d always known that, and she ignored it, and now, here she is.

She turns back around, stoops to grab a ball, delivers a severe serve. “What are you doing here, Kuvira.”

Kuvira waits until she sends another ball careening over the net to answer. “I think I owe you an explanation.”

Korra snorts, glancing over her shoulder again before refocusing on the ball she’s bouncing. Smashes it. _Thwack._ “Phones, you heard of them?”

“I wanted to see you. I mean, I was hoping to, but I didn’t—” Kuvira stops, sounding suddenly frustrated, and it’s unusual enough to make Korra hesitate, bouncing the next ball as she waits to hear more. “It’s your first championship, I didn’t want to—”

Korra turns to regard her incredulously. “I can’t tell if you’re genuinely full of shit, or if you think I’m an idiot. Both?” She feels a delicious thrill as Kuvira’s features darken, jaw tightening. “You’re treating me with kid gloves, now? Why, because I’m winning?”

Kuvira pushes slowly off the door and stalks over to Korra, eyes ablaze. “What are you accusing me of? I’m all ears.” She’s close now, very close, and she looks _angry,_ and a little hurt, as well as genuinely confused, and the combination makes Korra’s breath catch, though her pulse still thunders with the need to exact punishment, to see Kuvira struggle a little, for fucking once.

“And if we play each other, then what? You beat me, then _what_? None of this ever happened?” This isn’t what Korra means to say. It’s too raw, too unfiltered, but she’s been operating on a low-grade cocktail of apprehension and uncertainty that only grows more potent by the hour, and her filters are broken. “Tell me who you actually are, because I can’t fucking figure it out.”

“You’re that convinced that I’ll win?” Kuvira blinks, shaking her head with a slightly ironic smile. Her racket taps incessantly against her leg, fist nearly clenched to white. “Regardless. Korra. This is kind of an impossible situation.”

“It’s temporary,” Korra huffs, rolling her eyes. Kuvira visibly flinches, her eyes darting across Korra’s face. The tapping stops.

“Temporary.”

“Yes. That’s what you’re saying, aren’t you? You’re acting like it’s so impossible that this, that we—” Korra loses her train of thought, licking her lips as Kuvira ducks her head a bit, her eyes widening slightly, as if impatient to catch the next words out of her mouth. “I know we’re in very different places, here, and in our...lives, or whatever, but I didn’t realize that was actually a liability.”

“Of course it’s a liability. And I didn’t know how you felt about it.” Kuvira’s back to angry, and then her eyebrows un-knit in confusion at Korra’s sudden burst of laughter, the way she tosses her racket aside to clutch at Kuvira’s shoulders. She pulls Kuvira in closer, close enough that she can smell her sweat, the sharp tang of it, and something sweeter and deeper beneath it, like sandalwood and vanilla. It’s mildly intoxicating, as always, and she only has a moment to fervently pray that she’s not overshooting this, not barging in where she’s not wanted, before her mouth is moving again.

“You didn’t _know?_ How I _felt_ about it?” Korra demands, shaking Kuvira gently with each question, biting her lip against a goofy smile at the slow, dawning realization in Kuvira’s eyes. “You absolute _idiot?”_

“Don’t call me an idiot, you’re an idiot. It’s your first tournament and you’re pelting holes into cement walls because of me the night before the semifinal.” And it’s that quick, her transition back to _Kuvira,_ warmly smug and teasing—and then Korra’s stomach performs a slow somersault at the way Kuvira tosses her racket over to clatter against Korra’s, wrapping her arms around Korra’s waist, pulling them flush together. She leans in to press her lips against Korra’s ear, a warning laugh in her voice. “I was being _polite_.”

Korra rolls her eyes with a slightly unhinged groan, angling her head to press the tip of her nose against Kuvira’s neck, dragging it slowly upwards, just doing, doing, doing, abandoning thinking. It’s kind of like sinking into a tub of cold water after a grueling training session: a decadent shock to aching muscles, setting every nerve ending alight. “Stop being fucking polite, Beifong.”

“Fine.” Kuvira tightens her hold around Korra’s waist and leans in to capture her mouth in a kiss so deep and desperate that Korra has to cling to her for balance, eyes fluttering shut with a querulous moan. Kuvira stands solid, holding her still, one hand rising to card greedily through her hair, tilting her head, her tongue hot and quick and clever against Korra’s. It’s just like before, or better than before, because it’s happening again, and the anticipation has tripled the pleasure of it. Triples the flush of heat that suffuses Korra’s body when Kuvira makes her first sound, just a soft, bitten-off moan as she pulls away from the kiss and sees the look on Korra’s face, angles her head to bite at Korra’s neck, gently, then harder.

“Oh,” Korra gasps, then clamps her jaw shut, going impossibly hotter. Kuvira’s skin is so soft, her body so solid beneath Korra’s hands, and she can’t decide where to touch—or rather, where to linger, with so much to explore. The sculpted bend of her shoulders, her broad, firm back, the blessed place where Kuvira’s tank top meets her spandex shorts, the skin warm and soft beneath the fabric. Her fingers clench, nails biting in when Kuvira nips the lobe of Korra’s ear at the same time she draws a hand slowly, agonizingly slowly, down the center of Korra’s chest, fingertips trailing against the exposed skin of her abdomen. 

“I was going to wait,” Kuvira murmurs against Korra’s cheek, kissing it, then dragging her teeth along Korra’s jaw. Below, her hand spreads out and pivots so that her fingertips point downwards, and Korra feels a deep ache at her core at the motion, pulse hammering at its unsubtle promise. 

“Wait...for what?” 

Kuvira places a bite at the junction of Korra’s neck and shoulder, digs her teeth in, pulling a startled cry from the younger woman. And then she chuckles and hums thoughtfully, sliding her hand down, down, until Korra’s gasping quietly for breath, widening her stance slightly as deft fingers plunge directly into her underwear, curling up to fondle against her clit. “Until after the closing ceremonies. I didn’t want to be unprofessional.”

Korra’s biting her lip against an embarrassingly breathless sound, but some of it manages to escape anyway, and she clenches a hand in Kuvira’s hair to haul her in for a frantic, open-mouthed kiss, shuddering as Kuvira continues her slow ministrations. It’s such a glancing touch, somewhere between too much and not enough, and Korra is pushing into it before she can stop herself, rising up on her tiptoes to feel more, _please,_ more.

Kuvira makes a contented sound into her mouth but doesn’t offer any mercy or reprieve, just swirls her fingers through the slick, back and forth against Korra’s plush lips and erect clit in leisurely strokes, just spreading it, _playing_ in it, it feels like. She pulls back from the kiss, just enough to speak against Korra’s mouth, her voice dropping deeper, a touch more hoarse.

“Did you think about this?”

“Fuck.” Korra’s pussy throbs almost painfully, clenching and clenching on air, and she scrabbles at Kuvira’s back, pushing her hips forward needily, thinking of the nights she’d gotten the hotel sheets all twisted between her legs as she writhed silently, riding her own fingers to orgasm at the thought of Kuvira’s lips, her intense gaze, those powerful hands, the way her ass looks in her goddamn white shorts. Korra drops a hand further down to grab it now, kneading greedily while she nods, shameless with want. “Yeah, I did.”

“Tell me.”

Korra whines out loud when Kuvira pauses to shove her shorts and underwear a little further, but not much, just enough to ease the range of motion for her hand, which returns to the slippery juncture of Korra’s thighs. “Shit—just like this. On the court. And you— _fuck,”_ Korra says shakily, because Kuvira’s strokes are becoming more purposeful, making tight circles directly on her clit. “Your fingers, Kuvira, Jesus.”

“Mmhm. I’m not fucking you tonight,” Kuvira says, biting Korra’s lower lip, swallowing her disappointed groan. “But I will. And if we end up facing each other on Sunday, we’ll both have to play knowing you sound like this when I touch you.” Her breath hitches when Korra punches her hips forward once more, muffling a loud cry into Kuvira’s shoulder, biting into skin and spandex as she jerks against the hand currently holding her together and shattering her apart, each wave climbing higher and higher until she’s blissfully airborne, every muscle locked in a blinding wash of pleasure.

Kuvira holds her through it, only withdrawing her hand when Korra comes back to herself and shifts, hissing from overstimulation. She's barely gotten a taste of her own gleaming fingers when Korra cups her heat, punching out a startled groan as she massages vigorously, chasing more sounds, needing to watch her fall apart. Kuvira’s breaths come faster, hands moving up to frame Korra’s jaw, dragging the pad of her thumb across Korra’s upper lip before pushing it inside of her mouth, green eyes boring into blue. Korra flushes anew, accepting the intrusion, flicking her tongue against the digit as Kuvira’s mouth falls open, her head tipping back as she comes with a quiet gasp, grinding herself into Korra’s palm until her quakes finally subside. And then Kuvira’s grip is tightening against Korra’s jaw as she moves in for another kiss, this one slow, contemplative, tasting something like exhilaration, like relief.

* * *

“If I may,” Tenzin intones, raising a glass, beaming with fierce pride as he gestures to Korra. The restaurant is quiet and cozy, a marked contrast to the day’s frenzied succession of events following her tight win against Piandao. Her eyes had nearly crossed from the constant flashes, floating on a cloud of sheer disbelief and nerves as she answered questions and accepted congratulations and signed her name on t-shirts and arms and notebooks. Senna’s fingers graze over her forehead and brush at her hair, sweeping it back behind her ear, the familiar motion a grounding comfort. Tonraq looks, as ever, like he’s on the verge of tears, his wide, bulky frame taking up well more than half of his side of the booth. Thankfully, Tenzin is a reed. 

“Korra, I struggle to find the words to express how very proud I am,” Tenzin continues, and Korra’s cheeks hurt by now from smiling, but she can’t help it, because Tenzin has seen her at her absolute worst, has yelled and cajoled and pushed her more times than she can count, and she’s never, ever seen him look this triumphant. “I‘ve always known you were something special. From the very first day you waltzed onto my court all those years ago, with your light-up sneakers and bright blue braces, threatening to knock my head off my shoulders with your racket if I told you to ‘be patient with yourself’ one more time.”

“Oh god,” Korra groans, as her parents laugh. 

“I’ve watched that fiery spirit of yours grow and develop as your skill did, and I watched as it was tested in the most painful and difficult way. I never lost faith that you would pull through, eventually. What I couldn’t have foreseen was how rapidly you would take back your place in this world. How exceptionally wise and attentive a player you would prove yourself to be, in the very first real test of your skill, and on an international stage, no less.”

Korra blinks back tears and chokes out a small chuckle, shooting him a mock glare, which he smiles at, shaking his head.

“Yes, I know, but you have to accept this. No matter the outcome tomorrow,” he says seriously, leaning forward to clutch her hand, squeezing it, “You are everything we both know you can be. What your parents know you can be. I hope you never doubt yourself again. My only wish is that my mother could have been here to watch you play.” His eyes grow bright with unshed tears, and he squeezes her hand again before releasing it, lifting his glass once more, Senna and Tonraq following suit. “To you, Korra.”

“To Korra!” 

* * *

**Are you up?**

couldn’t sleep right now if I tried. how have you done this so many times?? are you a masochist?

**Yes. But you are one, too.**

I must be, to be dating you, hehe

**Ouch**

suck it up, cradle robber. what are you wearing rn 👅

**Nothing. 😏**

...UGHHH you’re killing me, smalls. are you serious?

**I don’t like wearing clothes to bed. You asked, I answered.**

fair. over under on sexting your opponent the night before a championship match?

**Korra, we should both sleep.**

she says, having texted me first.

**Cute. I just wanted to say good night, to be honest…**

so romantic, you are. 

okay so I have a kind of uncomfortable question

**I’m listening.**

my dad is a huge fan of yours and it would mean everything to him to meet you. I know tomorrow will be nuts either way (lol), but if you can spare a few minutes…

**Of course I’ll meet your Dad.**

amazing. I hope you’re ready to see a 6’4 250 pound man cry. 

**I’ve MADE larger men cry, I’ll be fine…**

😑 I walked right into that one.

**Yeah, you did**

will the rest of your family be there tomorrow? I’ve been meaning to ask

sorry if that’s a personal question

**Two of Su’s kids are here. We had a very awkward dinner a few nights ago. I’m not really close to the family.**

gotcha. that sounds unpleasant, I’m sorry

**I’m used to it. You should really try to get some rest. I’m going to do the same.**

but if we stop texting then eventually it’ll be tomorrow, and the thought makes me want to hurl for like an hour

**It’ll pass. Or actually, no, it probably won’t. Just get it all out before you step onto the court**

ha, solid advice, vet. thank you

**Just looking out for you, wildcard. Good night. ♥️**

night. 😘😘😘

* * *

Despite her scoffing at popular superstition and her general eschewing of organized religion and its attendant delusions, Korra cannot help but mutter a quick prayer at the start of every match. She isn’t even fully aware of what she says, if it’s indeed in any intelligible language, or who she’s praying to. But when she steps out onto the clay court, feeling tiny beads of sweat immediately well up at her temple beneath the weighted gaze of the early afternoon sun, she’s scarcely aware of her lips moving silently, hungry and beseeching. 

She feels both here and not here: inhabiting each and every cell of her body, weightless and formless, and also shot somewhere into the stratosphere, watching from above as she crosses the court to shake hands with the umpire, watching from above as Kuvira does the same, watching them meet each other’s eyes and nod, listening to the rules of play, performing the requisite warm-ups. 

After Kuvira’s vehement protest-turned-campaign that rocked the tennis world almost two years ago, she’s attired in her typical uniform: white shorts and a matching monokini, cut at both sides for a lateral peek of her abs and back, her hair pulled back into a neat French braid. Korra’s in a light blue high collar tank and white skirt, as much of her hair pulled up into a high ponytail as would fit, the shorter hairs in the back resting against her neck. She’s got Asami’s thin chain necklace on for luck, the necklace she’d worn at her very first championship win in Australia almost twelve years ago.

Time bends and dips when Korra plays, shimmering with a sort of technicolor unreality, the only crucial things being her racket, the ball, the net, her opponent. She’s gotten used to tuning out the crowd, for the most part, the cleared throats and aborted cell phone chimes, the random muttering. Beneath the rushing of blood in her ears, it’s Tenzin’s firm directives and reminders, so deeply ingrained that she couldn’t alter the tenor of her internal match monologue if she tried. 

Today, though, her head is silent, mind clear. It’s reassuring and it’s not; she swallows heavily as she bends to a slight squat, twirling her racket once as she rocks from side to side, watching and waiting, every nerve and synapse narrowed to one blinding point: the point where Kuvira, having won the coin toss, bounces the small green ball into her hand, the point where she plants her left foot, pivots on her right as she twists at the waist, mouth set tight, eyes focused and alert, the point where her racket connects with the ball with a breathtaking crack, setting the final match into furious motion. 

And then, it’s pure, ecstatic instinct, a rapidfire dance of athleticism and artistry as they go to battle for number one. 

* * *

_Beifong 1-2 Korra_

_BREAK! Korra is fired up for this match, letting out a big shout of “yes” every time she wins a point. The second seed moves confidently around the court before taking a second-serve ace to bring up 40-15, but Beifong is a fighter, and she gets herself back into the game as her younger countrymate hits the ball into the net. Beifong sends her opponent out wide with a stunning forehand, and Korra makes the return, but leaves the court wide open for the world number one to bring up deuce._

* * *

_Beifong 5-4 Korra_

_BREAK! Beifong wins the point following a 20-shot rally, after Korra hits her backhand into the net. A wide effort from the younger player gives Beifong two chances to regain the break of serve, and she takes it with a sharp cross-court forehand, which lands just on the sideline. Beifong will now serve for the opening set._

* * *

_SET! Beifong 6-4 Korra_

* * *

In any other situation, Korra would be thrilled to play Kuvira. Watching her is its own particular treat, but joining her on the court, being the sole focus of that intense stare, well, it’s obviously a much more thrilling experience. Thrilling, and more than a little terrifying.

Even so. Even when her body is this engaged, her mind blissfully blank save for her game strategy and its rapid execution, Korra is cataloging moments, arranging them like snapshots in her mind. There’s a wild beauty to Kuvira while she plays: her quick, punched out grunts as she takes a hard swing, her face flushed pink with exertion, short wisps of hair clinging to the sweat on her brow, her temples. It’s the glimpse at the shifting muscles as she stretches upwards, her flexing calves as she pelts across the court to send a tricky return whizzing back across the net, the gleam in her eye and particular set to her jaw when she misses, cursing below her breath. 

Strategy and execution. Korra has been likened to a soldier in the past: her precision, her willingness to take risks, the aggressive approach to her game, albeit complete with the occasional temper tantrum. Korra knows her strengths and exploits them without mercy, taking no prisoners, offering no quarter. 

She’s never faced an opponent quite like this, though. Because if Korra is a soldier, then Kuvira is a general. 

* * *

_Third set: Beifong 4-6 7-6 (7-2) 5-6 Korra* (*denotes server):_

_What an unbelievable pressure cooker this level of the game can be. Korra knows dropping here would be near fatal and misses across the court with a shot she would make blindfolded in training. Beifong then takes a 15-30 lead courtesy of a winner before an error - oh, the nerves! - makes it 30-30. It’s soon 40-30 after a Beifong challenge and Korra hangs on to take the lead. Yes, a break next game would make things very interesting. But we’ve been here before, haven’t we?_

* * *

_Third set: Beifong* 4-6 7-6 (7-2) 5-5 Korra (*denotes server):_

_You didn’t really think Beifong would drop serve, did you? She’s been there, done that, got the T-shirt in these situations many times before, and she lets out a triumphant shout as she takes the set to 5-5 with a big ace. Beifong. Spectacular._

* * *

_Third set: Beifong* 4-6 7-6 (7-2) 4-4 Korra (*denotes server):_

_On a knife’s edge at 30-30, Beifong fails to put a smash away before making amends as the ball just lands in court. But Korra takes the game to deuce, and then to her advantage as Beifong hits long, but Beifong shows customary determination and polish to restore parity. And it’s all Beifong from there. An opportunity lost for Korra, who’s been an unstoppable force in this tournament until now._

* * *

_Third set: Beifong 4-6 7-6 (7-2) 3-4 Korra* (*denotes server):_

_Korra races to a 30-0 lead before a rare unforced error gives Beifong an opening. At the net, Korra takes an unfortunate tack - zoning in on Beifong’s backhand - and she gratefully accepts by unfurling a brutal winner across the court. And follows it up with an almost villainous cackle of delight. Now at deuce, Korra’s reliable first serve gifts her the advantage and then the game as Beifong finds the net. Compelling stuff. I don’t think anyone in that stadium, or likely anyone watching from home, has blinked for quite some time now._

* * *

_Third set: Beifong 4-6 7-6 (7-2) 1-2 Korra* (*denotes server):_

_Korra gets her first serve rocking - producing her fastest of the match to set up game point - before Beifong crashes a return into the net to seal a comfortably held game for the young wildcard. If Korra is deflated after not wrapping this match up in two sets, she isn’t showing it._

* * *

_Third set: Beifong* 4-6 7-6 (7-2) 1-1 Korra (*denotes server):_

_Beifong is just a tenacious fighter, a real competitor, but Korra won’t lie down. The energy in the air is palpable here, these players have run each other ragged. What a show. Beifong finds the net again to hand Korra the advantage at 15-30 before a crunching forehand winner sets up match point._

* * *

**FRENCH GRAND SLAM BABEY**

**@takeme2thequeeeeeen**

M YROOMATE JUST CAME INTO THE LIVING ROOM TO TELL ME TO STOP SCREAMIGN 💀💀💀💀💀💀

**FRENCH GRAND SLAM BABEY**

**@takeme2thequeeeeeen**

I AM DYING I AM DEAD I CANNOT HANDLE THIS 

**bottom for athletez | she/they**

**@wimbled0n_hoe**

_Replying to @takeme2thequeeeeeen_

I mean I know kuvira will win because she’s GOD but what if she doesn’t win????????? 🚬

**Junie B Jones and the B stands for Billie Jean King**

**@stickyracketz**

_Replying to @wimbled0n_hoe_

She will def win lol but Korra, omg… spare crumb of p*ssy ma’am 🤤🤲🏿

**bottom for athletez | she/they**

**@wimbled0n_hoe**

_Replying to @stickyracketz_

fdsjkfjdkfjsdlkf MOOD

**Minnie is in Paris!!! | she/her**

**@beifongsupremacist**

KUVIRAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭

**bottom for athletez | she/they**

**@wimbled0n_hoe**

ALL HAIL KUVIRA FUCCKCK I AM SOBBIGNG 24 24 24 24 24 🔥🔥🔥🔥

**bottom for athletez | she/they**

**@wimbled0n_hoe**

SHE LITERALLY CANT LOSE OH MYGOD

**FRENCH GRAND SLAM BABEY**

**@takeme2thequeeeeeen**

Kuvira is literally unstoppable. An icon. You simply love to see it. 👏🏽👏🏽👏🏽👏🏽👏🏽

**FRENCH GRAND SLAM BABEY**

**@takeme2thequeeeeeen**

_Replying to @takeme2thequeeeeeen_

Korra’s face omfg...you did so good baby...Kuvira pls hug your wife…

**bottom for athletez | she/they**

**@wimbled0n_hoe**

_Replying to @takeme2thequeeeeeen_

ikr...ugh look at these queens my heartttt

**bottom for athletez | she/they**

**@wimbled0n_hoe**

s*y*n looks like such a karen ugh. GET AWAY FROM KUVIRA GET A JOB!!!! 🤬🔫

**Minnie is in Paris!!! | she/her**

**@beifongsupremacist**

_Replying to @wimbled0n_hoe_

lmfao

**Minnie is in Paris!!! | she/her**

**@beifongsupremacist**

I’m so happy omg I hope Korra is proud she did SO good. 

**Junie B Jones and the B stands for Billie Jean King**

**@stickyracketz**

Uhhhhhh hold awn who is THAT? Is that Korra’s dad?????????? I AM LOOKING 👁

**bottom for athletez | she/they**

**@wimbled0n_hoe**

_Replying to @stickyracketz_

Ok big beef...I see you daddy tenderloin...wanna put some new athlete babies inside me….

**FRENCH GRAND SLAM BABEY**

**@takeme2thequeeeeeen**

_Replying to @wimbled0n_hoe_

😒 JAIL @tennisstruggletwts

**Minnie is in Paris!!! | she/her**

**@beifongsupremacist**

Kuvira and Korra hugging with their trophies after dominating everyone else in the tournament is something that can be so personal 

**FRENCH GRAND SLAM BABEY**

**@takeme2thequeeeeeen**

_Replying to @beifongsupremacist_

help they look so SOFT...I am cryingggggg we literally cannot lose 🥰

**Minnie is in Paris!!! | she/her**

**@beifongsupremacist**

_Replying to @takeme2thequeeeeeen_

C’EST VRAIMENT POUR LES SAPHIQUES LE ROLAND-GARROS 

* * *

Korra has never been a good loser. 

Fortunately, Kuvira is an excellent winner. 

* * *

Of all the people to accost Korra after the press conference and its attendant photo shoots, the endless swarms of fans and reporters, Bolin is the least expected, and most welcome. She’s perched against the wall outside of the reception hall, just taking a breath, enjoying the momentary quiet—and then he’s striding up to her with a wide grin, waggling his eyebrows.

“We’re going out tonight,” he informs her gaily, pulling her into a tight hug. “You’ve been through the goddamn ringer! Let’s get drunk.”

Korra has never felt so tired in her life, but she’s also incredibly keyed up, needing to spill off some excess adrenaline. She hasn’t heard from Kuvira since Suyin and her publicists whisked her away for no doubt a much more grueling day than Korra is having, which is to be expected. “Yeah, absolutely. Where?”

“Mako heard about a great spot in the 18th, Gibus. Get ready to sweat.” Bolin taps his watch, checking a text message, then nudges Korra’s chin fondly. “I gotta go, but I’ll send you details!”

Now, with something to look forward to, the rest of the reception is more manageable: Korra smiles and answers questions and accepts the congratulations with sincere aplomb, concluding with a final celebratory dinner with her parents and Tenzin, sighing in relief when she’s finally back in her hotel room, flopping backwards onto the bed with a loud sigh. She shifts to ease her phone out of her back pocket, scrolling the seemingly endless series of text messages and Instagram DMs from family and friends, and many numbers besides that she doesn’t even recognize. She debates beginning to answer them, then groans, opting to open up her thread with Kuvira.

heyyy 24. you still alive?

**Barely.**

Korra snorts, toeing off her shoes and flipping over to her stomach.

**Couldn’t get to my phone for a bit. What are you doing?**

just got back to the room. lying in the dark. it’s nice.

**Wish I was there. 😒**

me too.

when are you a free woman? 

and would you want to go out tonight? bolin invited me, he says his brother knows about some club (I assume?) called gebous in the 18th…I definitely spelled that wrong

**I know it, Mako has good taste. I’ll meet you there. I have to go, sorry**

np, see you later, hottie 😘

* * *

The door of the club is small and inconsequential, basically hidden from the street, opening to a quiet, dank, and slightly smelly hallway with steps leading down to more darkness.

“I know it looks sketchy, but trust me,” Mako reassures them with an easy smile, leading the way. Korra looks back at Bolin, who shrugs.

“He hasn’t steered me wrong yet! But if anyone comes at you, I’ve got your back.”

“Thanks, Bolin.” 

The deeper they go, the louder the thrumming bassline, until they finally reach another door, where the ground is positively vibrating beneath their feet. When Mako pulls it open they’re met with a wall of sound, the kind of sticky, pulsating hip-hop and Afrobeats that reminds Korra of her early college years, though none of these lyrics are comprehensible. The club is larger than she thought it would be, but still pretty cozy, a wash of glowing colors dispelling the otherwise dark space, a mass of scantily clad bodies writhing nearly everywhere, dance floor be damned.

“Holy shit,” she yells, and Bolin whoops, slapping Mako on the back. 

“You did good, bro. Lead us to the bar.”

Talking is nearly impossible here, but they manage it anyway, swapping stories of the tournament, Korra regaling them with highlights of the match, sliding her phone out every so often to check for a text, each time forgetting that there’s no service this far down. It’s hard for her to imagine Kuvira in this place, though she’d certainly seemed familiar with it—and nearly an hour and a half in, veins buzzing happily with alcohol, she tries to push away her disappointment, annoyed with her own impatience.

“Enough of this, let’s dance,” Bolin declares suddenly, slamming his empty glass on the bar, and so Mako and Korra have little choice but to obey, wading into the sea of people. Korra's glad she’d opted for a short, slinky dress tonight, as she’s already beginning to perspire. The music is louder than ever now that they’ve stepped away from the bar, and it’s easy to get lost in the persistent rhythm, to let Bolin playfully scoot in behind her, hands on her waist before spinning her in his arms; to mimic Mako’s hip-swinging shimmy, emitting a peal of raucous laughter when Bolin joins in, tongue sticking halfway out of his mouth in concentration. 

At the transition to the next song, the crowd absolutely loses it, the energy in the room ratcheting upwards exponentially, lights flashing even faster. Korra’s never heard the song before, and wishes she knew what the rapper was saying so she can look it up later. For now, losing herself in the thumping beat, carding a hand through her hair to move it from her sweaty face—it’s enough, and nearly perfect. By this point the place is so packed she’s not even sure who she’s dancing on, nor does she particularly care, as it’s a little too cramped and too hot to make any personal space demands. Still, she raises a curious eyebrow when suddenly two possessive hands cradle her waist, pulling her back against a firm female body that’s roughly her height, warm lips pressed against her ear.

“I didn’t know you could dance.”

Korra smiles, undulating a bit slower and more deliberately as she tilts her head sideways, stomach fluttering at the line of kisses being placed against her neck. “Never really came up. Glad you got away, I was afraid you wouldn’t find us.”

She feels Kuvira’s low laugh more than she hears it, a brief exhale of breath against her overheated skin as they continue to move together. “You were? That’s very cute.” Kuvira trails her hands past Korra’s hips and down to her thighs, then scrapes them gently back up, lifting her dress just a few inches before releasing the material with an appreciative hum. “Nice dress.”

Korra turns in her tight embrace, watching the riotous play of lights flash across Kuvira’s face, the appraising smile on her lips, the heat in her eyes as she pulls Korra close enough to bite at her lip. “So, you won,” Korra laughs against her mouth. “I think I’m supposed to resent you, but all I can think about is getting you naked, honestly.”

“That works. Resentment later,” Kuvira replies with a wry grin, her hips never ceasing their sinuous roll, one thigh insinuating ever closer between Korra’s legs. She expels a low moan into Korra’s ear when the younger woman presses herself against it in a subtle, yet firm grind, her intention clear. “I know I just got here, but—"

“Yeah no let’s go.”

Korra doesn’t bother trying to find the boys, but she shoots Bolin a brief text letting him know she’s headed back to the hotel once they’re above ground, ears ringing in the relative silence of the dark street. Kuvira finds them a taxi and they spend the next twenty-three minutes in acute agony, sitting close but not too close, Kuvira’s hand braced on her knee, her thumb rubbing in small circles as the car bumps over cobblestoned streets, an old, grainy rendition of Je Ne Regrette Rien crackling through the speakers. Korra chances a glance at Kuvira, watching the shadows play across her smooth features, admiring the neat lines of her profile until her lips curl upwards, her eyes still trained out of the opposite window.

“You’re staring.”

“Yes.”

“Arrêtes. Autrement je dois te baiser.” At this pronouncement, the driver peers suspiciously into the rearview mirror, making an aggrieved noise. 

“Mais pas ici, hein! Putain de merde, les lesbiennes, ça me fait chier…”

“See? You’ll get us in trouble with this wonderful gentleman,” Kuvira whispers, finally meeting Korra’s eyes with a mischievous smile. Korra still isn’t sure exactly what she said, but she did hear _stop,_ though, she notes, Kuvira’s hand has only slid a bit further up her leg. As always, the sound of French vowels rolling off of her lips hits Korra squarely in the gut, and she only permits herself another self-indulgent second or two before finally dragging her gaze away with a slow chuckle.

“Ta gueule,” is all she can pathetically muster, and she grins when Kuvira laughs out loud.

They somehow make it through the rest of the ride and then they’re breezing through the lobby and into the cramped elevator, Kuvira pinning Korra against the wall to lick hotly into her mouth as it begins its slow, rattling ascent to the top floor. It’s a struggle to pull away, even when the doors eventually ding open, and Korra can’t decide if it’s the alcohol or just Kuvira, or maybe both, that has her feeling this wanton and impatient. Draping herself around Kuvira as she fumbles in her pocket for the room key, who mutters a curse when it buzzes red, then tries again.

“Having trouble?” Korra laughs, licking a stripe up Kuvira’s neck, arm braced around her waist, and then the door is finally open and they stumble inside, Kuvira quickly wresting control as she pushes Korra onto the bed, surveying her hungrily as she follows, smacking gently at Korra’s hands as she starts to pull off her dress.

“Leave it,” Kuvira orders, sliding her hands up Korra’s thighs and continuing this time, until her fingers pinch at the delicate material of her panties, raising an eyebrow in question. “Can I?”

“Yes,” Korra moans, tilting her hips to help Kuvira get them off, her mouth falling open as Kuvira doesn’t toss them carelessly onto the floor, as she expected, but lifts the silky black material to her face, inhaling. _“Holy_ shit.” Her head falls back on a shaky exhale as Kuvira just laughs, separating her legs, and then she’s diving in to affix her mouth to Korra’s clit, licking it slowly, meditatively, again and again and again. Korra’s hands fly up to cover her mouth against a loud gasp as she arches upwards, circling her hips to seek more pressure, her spread thighs twitching and flexing in Kuvira’s steady hands. 

“Too much?” Kuvira mumbles, and Korra shakes her head frantically, swallowing, the entire universe compressing into the place where Kuvira’s stabbing her eager tongue into her hole, then replacing it with a finger, working it in and out as she laves her erect nub once more, then kisses it. Korra’s pants grow louder as she presses her shoulders down and hips up, crying out when Kuvira just lets her, hitching her thighs over her shoulders and bracing her hands against Korra’s belly, her back, holding her in place as she continues to kiss her, humming while she licks her open.

Korra gropes sightlessly downward, fingers curling roughly into Kuvira’s hair as she tumbles helplessly into her orgasm with loud, broken off moans, shuddering against Kuvira’s tongue, and then tugging her gently away, choking out a shocked laugh, lights spinning behind her eyelids as they fall shut. “Fuuuuck.”

Kuvira slides upwards to capture her mouth in a kiss, obliging when Korra shoves her tank top upward, pulling away to peel it completely off, followed by her bra. In a matter of seconds they’re both completely bared, and Korra surges upward to take a nipple into her mouth, sucking it gently, and then harder, fingers clenching in Kuvira’s back at the sound of her quiet moan. She switches to the other side, taking her time, relishing the way Kuvira’s belly tightens as she sweeps her fingers downward, the way Kuvira bites her lip when Korra rubs her fingers against her slit, collecting the slick and spreading it. Then she’s sliding out from beneath Kuvira, stilling her when she tries to turn over, a firm hand between her shoulders as she sits up on her knees, bends over to whisper in Kuvira’s ear. “No, you stay right there.”

“What are you—hmmmmm, I see,” Kuvira chuckles shakily, but follows Korra’s wordless instruction, pillowing her head in her arms and keeping her knees bent, back arched. Expels a sharp hum when Korra leans over to kiss the divot between her shoulder blades, her hand finding Kuvira’s cunt again, sliding a finger in. “Is...this, mm, is this payback? For today?”

Korra snorts, biting down on Kuvira’s right shoulder, twisting her finger in further before withdrawing it completely. “If you want to think of it that way.” Then she places two fingers against her opening and shoves them steadily in, feeling the vibrations of Kuvira’s moans against her back as she continues brushing kisses down her spine, the sounds slippery and wet in the otherwise quiet room. “Good?”

“Uh. More.” Kuvira’s skin is flushed and hot as she rocks back against Korra, dark hair spilling from her now unkempt braid. She hisses as Korra adds a third finger, pushing in deep, circling and exploring her clenching walls. _“Oh—”_

Korra scrapes her teeth over Kuvira’s other shoulder, sweeps her hair aside to press a kiss to the back of her neck, slowly increasing the pace of her hand’s thrusts, cataloging every gasp and whimper that Kuvira releases into the pillow. She feels incredible around Korra’s fingers, tight and hot and leaking steadily down her knuckles, pooling in her palm. Soon Kuvira is pushing back to meet every thrust, her face strained in need, mouth falling open as she cranes her neck to try and look back at Korra.

“Harder,” she demands hoarsely, and Korra makes a low noncommittal sound, slowing down. _“Korra,_ I said—”

“I thought being polite was your thing,” Korra muses, withdrawing her fingers to rub teasingly along her lips, plush and swollen with blood, the downy hairs soaked to the skin. 

“I thought you wanted me to stop,” Kuvira growls, and Korra chuckles, closing her teeth against the rise of a plump asscheek, grinning when Kuvira moans, arching further back. Interesting.

“I changed my mind.”

“Fuck.” Korra delivers a stinging smack to the place her teeth recently vacated, making Kuvira jump, then look backwards again with a small grin, her voice pitched lower than Korra’s ever heard it, dark with promise. “Korra, Korra...you just wait.”

Goosebumps break out across Korra’s skin, but Kuvira doesn’t know that, and she struggles to keep her voice level. “Yeah, I’m just waiting for you to say please.”

“Please,” Kuvira responds immediately, her voice dripping with both sarcasm and raw need. Korra has no idea how she does it. She angles her hips further upwards, still keeping her head turned Korra’s direction, still wearing that playful, sardonic smile. _“Please,_ fuck me like you mean it.”

“Jesus,” Korra exhales shakily, not even caring when Kuvira laughs out loud, because the next moment that laughter crumbles into quiet moans that are muffled into the pillow as Korra’s fingers return to her clinging heat, pistoning into Kuvira at a punishing pace, hellbent on reducing her to incoherency. Then she leans down to better adjust the angle, shifting her hand and curling her fingers to press down with every inward thrust, her other hand splayed in the middle of Kuvira’s back to hold her still. “Kuvira. You look fucking incredible like this. Is this what you wanted?”

Kuvira opens her mouth, closes it, nods, eyes clenched shut as she struggles to hold herself still. Korra isn’t kidding herself, there's no way she’s strong enough to keep Kuvira fully immobilized, but the fact that she’s tacitly submitting is—unexpected, honestly, and hot as hell. “I’m—Korra, _hmmm,_ there, there—”

“Here?”

_“Ohfuck.”_ Kuvira freezes with one soft, high gasping sound, clenching wildly around Korra as she nearly demolishes the pillow, holding herself taut for several long seconds before collapsing, boneless and panting, quietly spent. Korra gently withdraws her fingers and lowers herself to lay on her back beside Kuvira, turning her head to take in her slightly dazed expression as she licks her fingers. Kuvira huffs a laugh, closing her eyes again. “Good show, wildcard. Give an old woman a second.”

Korra rolls over onto her side, still just _looking,_ because she can, and then cards a hand slowly through Kuvira’s hair, smoothing it away from her face, meeting that green gaze when Kuvira's eyes blink open again. They just stare at each other for a while, the faint melodic wheedle of a passing ambulance briefly interrupting the hush, and Kuvira must see the question forming in Korra’s eyes.

“What?”

“So does this feel different?”

Kuvira blinks, nonplussed. “Elaborate.”

“You said at the beginning of this, that you were looking for something that felt different.” Korra’s hand drifts down to Kuvira’s braid, slowly separating the strands as she waits, heart hammering, for a response.

“Oh.” Kuvira smiles faintly in remembrance, eyes scanning Korra’s face. “Yeah, definitely.”

“Even though you won _again?”_ Korra teases, now gently combing through the loose, wavy strands. Kuvira waits a beat, her mouth soft, her eyes traveling Korra's face.

“I would have happily lost to you.”

“You are a goddamn liar, Beifong,” Korra scoffs, then yelps in surprise when Kuvira suddenly pushes up to vault herself over Korra, forcing her onto her back, lowering to drop a firm kiss against her lips, and then another.

“Okay, maybe not _happily,”_ she murmurs against her mouth. “But I was more than prepared for the possibility. It wouldn’t have changed any of this.”

“Oh so you’re saying you would have let me fuck you if I had won?”

“Uh, no, absolutely not.” Kuvira grins as Korra bursts into laughter, entwining their fingers and raising their joined hands over her head, so that their bodies are pressed deliciously and completely together, skin on skin on skin on skin. 

* * *

**Hey hey lovergirl are you pregnant yet??? 😎**

**Sooooo remember how Izumi told us that she’s been seeing somebody?**

**Yeah so she finally brought her over for dinner, and**

**I was going to kind of wait and suss out how things were going with you and BAE but since you two have been spotted kissing in La Brea and taking trips together and shit**

**IT’S LIN……...BEIFONG. That Izumi is dating!!! As in Suyin’s older sister 😳**

**(Iroh cried lolol yes that’s my man)**

**But yes what I am trying to say is I’m essentially cousins in law with your gf**

**At face value Lin seems like a less fun and more hard ass version of Izumi, which, LOL, but seeing them together is actually the most precious thing in the world. Like they balance each other out and kind of soften the hard edges? Incredible stuff**

**Anyway I remember you complaining about how superbly shitty Kuvira’s mom is and Lin doesn’t seem crazy about her either to say the least**

**So whenever you two get back and you’re both free mayyyyybe you guys can come over for dinner so they can all meet? I know family is a kind of sore subject, so no pressure. But I figured maybe enemy of my enemy, etc**

**Warning I accidentally let this hypothetical plan slip to Iroh and he’s like already planning the menu and seating arrangement. SORRY bc you know how he gets 😬😬😬😬**

**I realize it’s like 4 AM in Bali. Ha you’ll see all of these when you wake up.**

**OH last thing: Zumi said something that kind of sounds like “naga” today, we have no clue what it means but if it comes to you in a dream or something lmk. k love youuuu**

* * *

_THE MODERATOR: We have the French Grand Slam ladies champion, Kuvira Beifong. Who is going to ask the first question?_

_Q: Aang McEnroe described your performance today as superhuman. Where do you rate it?_

_KUVIRA BEIFONG: That’s a hard question to answer. Honestly, I haven't really had time to think about it or see it. I'm still living in those emotions right now, so I'm not quite sure._

_Q: Are you going to luxuriate at 24 or are you already focusing on 30?_

_KUVIRA BEIFONG: Oh, God, no. If there’s anything that’s become apparent to me lately it’s the importance of enjoying the moment. I plan to slow down and enjoy this._

_And I have the Olympics coming up next. I’m definitely going to take it one step at a time._

_Q: How do you feel Korra fared against you today, considering this is not only her first tournament, but her return to tennis?_

_KUVIRA BEIFONG: I was really, really impressed by her performance. I went in expecting a difficult match and she delivered. I couldn’t take anything for granted. She’s a gorgeous player._

_Q: Did you say gorgeous?_

_KUVIRA BEIFONG: (Laughs) Uh, I guess I did._

_Q: Will you celebrate and how?_

_KUVIRA BEIFONG: I don’t know, I’m a little tired right now. I don’t remember the last win I’ve celebrated, actually. But...maybe. I think maybe this time I’d like to. It feels different this time around._

**Author's Note:**

> I really just like to imagine iroh ii as kronk from emperor's new groove, scurrying around to refill everyone's drinks and get the cream puffs from the oven when it dings, zumi gurgling happily in the baby bjorn that's strapped across his chest
> 
> anyway, thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed <3 find me on twitter: @kuviraava


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